


SILVER CITY

by eeshatrbl



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: 2103, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Cyborgs, Gangs, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-War, Robots, more tags later i'm lazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeshatrbl/pseuds/eeshatrbl
Summary: Yokohama China Town was not all fried silver carps for Seungcheol and his crossbow.ORChoi Seungcheol had a task on his mind and compunction in his veins--forever.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. ZERO: YELLOW LETTER

**Author's Note:**

> i've been planning to write a chinese mythology!seventeen au for a very long time, and now i did it! my betas--kat and thal--i love you both so much. thank you to kat (again) and the couprang gc for song suggestions for the playlist because i can't function otherwise.

2103 September, 9th

( **2103年9月9日** )

Kiriko Complex

REMINDER

Respected ASAI HIKARU ( **浅井ひかる** ),

Your appointment for Semantic Memory Erasure is placed on 12th of September ( **2103年9月12日** ). If failed to attend, trivial consequences will follow.

We ensure that every memory involving the Non-Existentary will be removed from you, for the betterment of Japan Nihon. No harm shall be induced on any of our citizens.

_Every tomorrow will become a yesterday._

Yokohama Police Department

( **横浜警察** ) 


	2. ONE: FISHERMAN'S BRIDGE

For Seungcheol, things had always been predetermined.

Even when he tried not to become another code in the system—the city of low grey skies, and blinding neon towers—it turned out to be human nature that pulled the rug away from his stable grounds.

He coined it as greed, as he looked at the shredded yellow paper from across the room, his elbows resting on his thighs with pain piercing from the sharpness of his bones, and his head encaged in his fingers. His sleek body casted a shadow on the carpeted floor that held his feet to the ground, because in all honesty, something had to keep him from slipping.

He wasn’t too fond of the shadows that danced in the night. In days like these, the voice of his friend soothed him away. But the little bitch wasn’t picking up, so he turned to the rain.

Human nature was as sickening as the darkness that held his apartment; even the wall sized window behind him refused to shine at the ungodly hour. The moon had vanished like a doomed god, the raindrops fell gentle on her lover’s skin, and he would have had a good sleep if it weren’t for the ominous smell of confinement all around him.

He was trapped.

He rang Yuta up again, pushing aside the idea of time and money. His device was getting old. He was given no reason to save up for the past year, and midst the pendulum of buzz on the loudspeaker, Seungcheol tried to come up with at least one reason why he wasn’t up to date with the world around him.

The city liked to punch him in the guts every time. 

Seungcheol let out an exasperated sigh, letting the realization climb on his skin. Yuta wasn’t going to pick up any sooner, and if he wasn’t lying, somewhere deep inside him he knew this would happen. He could see the rain all around him, each little drop whispering in his ears and kissing his back. He tossed his phone away, the slim device slipping somewhere under his covers. _If Yuta didn’t pick up now, then he might as well never_ , he thought, bringing his eyes back to the one thing in the room that glowed.

He shouldn’t have torn the paper.

But Yuta liked to tell him he was mad sick to think properly when he’s angry, like rationality ate him up. This was one of the few times he would like to sit down and have a cup or two of tea with his friend, talking about his bad choice of hair colours, and telling him how he was right—even if it ate up his pride.

Seungcheol was nothing but a bundle of impulsive decisions—mass of skin and flesh had left him the moment he stepped into the blinding Yokohama lights. But the knowledge of it took him six years.

He fell on his knees, crawling two feet towards the mess he had made, crusts on his knees warming up with friction.

Adhesives. He must have some around, mustn’t he?

Then again, did Seungcheol ever have anything to pull himself back together with?

He didn’t. He wasn’t even sure if he had milk left in his refrigerator, or even eggs to keep him alive anymore. And through the bones peeking out of his powder-like skin, he believed it didn’t matter too much—he was going to leave soon. Exactly when Yuta decides to have mercy on him and call him back.

He straightened up to reach the light switch, hands crawling on the white wall, then fell back down, putting the pieces together like a jigsaw, blindly enough to make it seem like he was coded with the process. He found the date again.

Three days. Seungcheol had three days until Yokohama Police Department would come looking for him. It was enough for him to pack his shit and run—only if Yuta answers his goddamn phone.

It was funny how it all depended on a nut-crack from the roots of Japan.

First, his apartment would be checked.

Then Yuta’s, because the silver-headed agonizer was the only one left in the streets for him. And if Yuta blurted out some bullshit—that too will be scanned.

Seungcheol knew the YPD, and how it worked—from in and out, throughout like it was his own skeleton. It was another kind botulism—thinking minds were seeds they could plant and grow, watering them with bloodshed, then shrivel it up of what it was meant to live for. Their force was never efficient enough to catch even a glimpse of what went in the head he carried.

It bought him enough time to get what he wanted.

If he knew them well (which he did, undeniably), they would look for him at the ports if nothing at the apartments gave away his disposition, or towards the borders if they had some goddamn logic. No one would ever imagine him speeding towards the heart of the city. It was already a win for him.

Seungcheol crushed the bits in his hand and opened the door to the bathroom. He pulled the lighter from his pocket and watched the papers burn down his drain. 

_If failed to attend, trivial consequences will follow_ , it had said. Clear, and it rang inside the mass of red he bore. And at the same time, Seungcheol felt empty. Void.

As if he gave a shit.

He threw the lighter in the bowl, harsh, breaking it of its identity.

Seungcheol heard the faint buzz of his phone, pulling him out of the trance, churning in him like sunlight. He quickly answered, checking only after if it was Yuta or not— _“can you not call me when i’m in the middle of something?”_

Seungcheol let out a laugh, feeling it buzz on either sides of the call. He suddenly found it difficult to speak up, but he said it: “I need you to do me a favour.”

 _“What?”_ He head the screech of a zip. There he was again, fucking around—Seungcheol wasn’t even surprised anymore. _“What favour?”_

“Can you meet me near the bridge?”

He knew by heart what would follow.

 _“Now? It’s…it’s three in the fucking morning, Hikaru.”_ The pause was definitely to check the time.

And he knew that. He knew it well—the clock on his table made sure to remind him every time, sad how Yuta didn’t have one wherever he was. “You’re awake, though. And it seems like you’re dressed enough.”

 _“Fuck you”_ Yuta seethed through the line. Seungcheol laughed. He was going to miss this. A lot. _“I’ll be there in twenty.”_

_

He should’ve known what Yuta meant by ‘twenty’.

The smell of dead, rotting marine hovered over him head to toe as Seungcheol stood at the mouth of the gated bridge reading the sign a hundred times.

 _OPENING HOURS 04:00 – 23:00_ , it said in the loudest, sharpest red he had ever seen. About an hour left, until the anglers would storm in like the fish they came to catch, to unknowingly feed a whole lot of people—a sphere bigger than their three kids and wives.

But the sea—she was decay.

Seungcheol had the power of mind to draw up a table of similarities between him and the poisoned waters, lines uneven and shaken, but bold enough to make a statement. Both had nowhere to go, and both were sick in identity.

For the past year, he had the freedom to leave the land, but the sea was everywhere.

And so he stuck with the sea—because there will never be a place like home.

Till death, Seungcheol felt it on his skin, the need of finding home never leaves. Because the palaces he built, the ones filled with stars and moons, are nothing but fluorescent city lights that burst once glamour is lost.

“Have you finally decided to join the YPD?” He heard from behind. Knowing exactly who it was, Seungcheol turned around to greet the man with a smile, feeling it in him, “They’re working on your case again. Seems like they’d want a man like you.”

Yuta shone under the floodlights and summer sky. He beamed with a newfound energy to convince Seungcheol into something he would never agree to—but the sweat golden on him like a second skin; Seungcheol felt the intense burning of uncanny intentions.

“No,” he dragged himself closer to Yuta, breathing more of the sea in, forgetting how the man himself smelled like, “you know I won’t.”

Post-rain dampness and humid hot skies filled the physical gaps between them, coating them full of dependence and wailing.

“Then I’ve got no business with you, Hikaru.”

Yuta was always there to remind him he wasn’t Choi Seungcheol anymore. Things like those, the Non-Existentary and all rocks of dead stars, were of no importance for the children of Japan. 

Seungcheol dropped his gaze to the ground. It was a suggestion, worth all the million fading dawn stars around them, but it was the wrong timing. He had already made his mind up to attain forever—it was nothing that could fetch him out of there. Sometimes, things like peace and money were never meant to be.

Yuta tapped his shoes on the concrete and rusted metal, anticipating a curt response. His strong body casted and amiable shadow, meeting Seungcheol’s own stolen toes. “You had the audacity to drag me out of Shinu at three _fucking_ am to just look at my shoes? Are you kidding me?”

“Shinu?” Seungcheol scoffed, just to break the thickness between them. He had known it then and there after the metal zipper rang in his ears.

“Fuck off—it’s for the case.”

He had his arms crossed an eyebrows furrowed, annoyed, almost childlike—but scars on him like medals of battles he had won, or the tarnish of those he had lost showed nothing but the truth behind the city boy Yuta liked to be. He tried to be intimidating, and it was working; for the first time in their six years of friendship, enough for Seungcheol to turn his head further to the side and lower his voice.

An infuriated gasp left his friend, and he knew it was time for him to let it all out.

He just wished he had come a bit more prepared, but nothing in life came as sliced cake and frosted pastry.

“I need a weapon.”

He had let it out as a whisper, anticipating a build-up from there—but Yuta heard it all clear enough to drop his shoulders, barbaric, _“What?”_

“A weapon,” he said it out like a stern blasphemy, “anything easy to carry—a handgun, pistol, revolver—anything of that kind, we fucked with enough of those during—” Seungcheol spoke fast, gushing with his hands about everything he talked about, making shapes and sizes with his pale fingers. He didn’t glance at Yuta, at all, but he knew the man thought he was crazy.

“Hikaru—”

Heck, Seungcheol _himself_ thought he was crazy. A mad man with the lust for eternity. The moon never shone for him.

He looked up; his eyes glimmered. Not golden, because gold never stayed. Seungcheol would stay—like forever, exactly like forever. He felt this strange wave on him, of uncertainty and doubt, and haste. Maybe Yuta wasn’t worth telling all of it, of forever—he wasn’t worth telling any of it. No one was, he had to keep on reminding himself that.

But he needed the weapon; there was no way he could make it without one, and he would do whatever it took to get his hands on one.

Seungcheol stared at Yuta with the same shine in his eyes, and Yuta looked back at him with creased eyebrows and bruised cheeks. “Without the YPD tracker.”

“ _Cheol_ …Cheol shut the fuck up.”

Even when innocence poured out of him—Seungcheol was being disastrous.

He felt drawn out of the sea he was drowning in. He became Seungcheol again.

But just as Yuta placed his hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders, pushing him down until he was seated on the assortment of blocks near the rusted gate, he felt himself back, submerged under cold water. The red would’ve fell on him, but he didn’t care—Yuta’s grip was too tight on his bones, all his attention was on the stinging there.

Yokohama had a mind of its own. If it wanted Yuta to pull his hair back in a ponytail to beat the heat, it would cast the post-rain humidity on him. Sweat rolled down his scalp, dollops of glitter on him, and he retreated his arms.

Seungcheol’s shoulder felt relieved, but the impressions still lingered.

“I really need it.”

He breathed it out, pleading eyes catching the gaze Yuta refused to establish. Pawn games and battleships, he wasn’t fanatical enough for the questions that were going to follow. He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell anyone.

When the wind blew, he felt the dampness of sweat on his own face. The scent of fishery crept into his senses again, reminding him of the trap he had his legs caught in, and the sounds of ferry whistles tore themselves through the air.

“Why?”

He looked up, one way sure to get him out of it. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Yuta sighed. “Of course I do, but—”

“Then don’t ask me why.”

“Cheol—”

“No.”

The sun began to rise, and Yuta’s silver started to morph into gold. Gold wasn’t forever, neither was Yuta. But Seungcheol remained the same obscure black he was inside and out, because he was going to become forever. Undying.

He licked his lips, having all the might sucked out of his ribcage. Just a simple word and his entire body had begun to shake from it. _Yuta deserved a better friend_ , he thought.

A horn blew.

 _“Fine,”_ the man sighed, pushing his hair back yet again, “I’ll see what I can do.”

About fifty men came marching with hand-woven baskets on the best of their backs, automated fishing tools in their hands, proud like the future of the country. One of them stood nearby and unlocked the gate, stripping the handle of the chains it bore. The rest rushed in behind him for work. A simple morning engine.

Seungcheol and Yuta didn’t exist for them.

They could hear the first of the birds; their mindless chirping and flocks casting shadows barely an hour into daylight.

Yuta still peered at him, head lowered to where Seungcheol’s legs were sprawled uncomfortably. “Is this…is this because of Amari?”

He was pushed further into the sea—moss on his skin, water in his lungs.

“No.”

“Cheol…you can tell me.”

His eyes softened—and Seungcheol hated it when that happened. “No. It’s not about him. None of this is about him.”


	3. THREE: BEER CANS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY I GOT STUCK WITH MY FINALS AND THEN GRADUATION AND I LANDED MYSELF A WORK ASSIGNMENT WHICH INVOLVES WRITING like i get exhausted by that and i have no motivation left to edit my own works :(( if i finish the job by september i will be rich and free and i'll continue this more punctually :(( i really am sorry :((

“Did you receive the letter?”

They still had the distance, and if Seungcheol wasn’t dipped in the thickness of blood and pounding hearts, he would’ve noticed it. Yuta did—but there was no one to know.

“No.” Seungcheol whispered, no hesitation on his sunken face, and to cover it up, he pulled a mask of curiosity, eyebrows creased with a lining of innocence. “Did you?”

It felt like a weight was lifted off him—Yuta’s face lit up, infant excitement revelled in his body. Seungcheol felt elated at the relief. The fishermen sung their song.

“I did” he was giddy.

Water splashed under the morning sun, both of them shone with the beams on them.

Yuta smiled at him. Seungcheol smiled back.

Machines of Yokohama had started to steam, men had commenced their work, unwilling but obligated. Fishermen screeched their boats to work, rusted metal on itself. _If we find the fish today_ , they sang, _then our kin can live to see the next day. And it applied for all that brooded on Earth._

“So, _Choi Seungcheol_ —” he emphasized on the name, exultant as it rolled of his bruised cerise lips. Another breath out of water, oxygen that man was obliged to, “—I’ve got work to do, and I hope you have some as well. I’ll take my leave, now." 

He watched as Yuta pulled his jacked alright on his shoulders, turning on his heels, and walking away. His eyes were stuck to him—the figure disappearing into the wilderness without any worries. 

Seungcheol felt his chest tighten. 

_\----_

Yuta knocked at the door to his apartment the next day to pour out bottles of acidic complains about Seungcheol’s lifestyle, eating habits and ghastly stature. Seungcheol had to listen to every word, putting up the façade of attention and apology every time his friend pointed at the pile of beer cans built up in a good portion of the capsule apartment. 

He had also come to deliver a crossbow. 

Crossbows and Seungcheol didn’t get along well—the traditional wooden pieces could maybe become something he would have a hold on since training days, years of blood and tears lining on his mind as he looked at it, but the heavy metal recursive that sat dismantled on the floor—Seungcheol would never willingly go near those. 

And it was a _fucking_ ridiculous choice. Seungcheol was nearly offended at the audacity of the man in front of him to present him with a crossbow—years old—instead of a handy gun. 

It turned out to be the only thing in the inventory without the YPD tracker. Brutes had everything done their way, but he knew it from flesh that wasn’t going to stay up for long. 

He felt his anger build in his spine, waiting for the silver-head to throw out an explanation before he picked up the crossbow and launched a bolt in between his eyebrows. 

As if Yuta had already known Seungcheol’s denial and demeanour, he had gotten the claimed broken weapon fixed from the stock, new strings of synthetic fibre stretched out, and a holder to help him carry it on him easier. 

“Rubenian PS-1,” he read out loud from the writings on the stock, running his fingers around it to at least spurt a ‘good job’ out of Seungcheol’s mouth. Getting nothing in return, Yuta busied himself with fixing the scope on the holder with childish curiosity, whining out: “you’re supposed to be grateful.” 

In the end, he had no other choice but to accept the offering. Yuta was persistent on glorifying the weapon. 

“They’re taking a bunch from YPD to the labs today,” Yuta spoke, standing up as his knees cracked, he winced, opening the refrigerator door, “you don’t have any fucking food in here, Hikaru. Are you fucking feral?” 

Seungcheol laughed, pulling himself up from the bed. “I didn’t ask for you to come and criticize my way of living, yet you’ve been doing that for the past fucking hour.” 

“So I don’t have the right to be your friend anymore?” 

“You might forget me by tomorrow.” 

He didn’t mean to break it out like that, but it was all true. It laid itself out of his tongue like bitter juice and sour milk—vile and disgusting in its splendour. 

There was never a hundred percent efficiency in the system. It could be anyone—Mrs Shogo from downstairs, someone from the YPD, or anyone with a head amongst the hundreds of people Seungcheol saw per day—but Yokohama hated him, nicotine in its veins, so damn much, he knew it’d be Yuta. 

He was traumatized.>

Then there lay the fact that he didn’t _need_ Yuta anymore. The last thing he got was a weapon, and a long, good look of his friend before he crawled out of the holds to leave. He was going, unnoticed enough—for an eternity no one else could have a grasp on. 

“Not everyone ends up like Amari.” 

There he was again, trying to calm the storm in him. Seungcheol felt horrible all the time, but Yuta tried—and that mattered enough for him to smile a little and tell him it was working. 

This wasn’t the time for him to do so, because the name lingered in the afternoon sunlight between them, and Seungcheol could just gather up the courage to look up at Yuta. 

“But Amari ended up that way,” he breathed in, breathed out, his chest hurt, “didn’t he?” he muttered under his breath. 

Yuta should never know. Yuta can never know. The pain was his chattel. 

Sealing it shut, locking it up, he spoke again, louder, “are you sure no one’s going to think you’re being sketchy? Are we going to get caught?” 

“I’m the only one with the tracker here—not this baby, not you” Yuta’s finger moved between the crossbow and Seungcheol. “Now that I think about it, I’m glad you left the YPD. The entire process of injecting trackers hurt like a fucking bitch, no man ever sheds tears unless it’s the process of— _the point is_ , no one will find out about this.” 

Yuta plopped on the bed beside Seungcheol, his denim jacket on the floor next to the crossbow he had brought in, curling up in the minimal space. 

He had come over with cans of beer. Like always, and never again. 

It was the only cold thing in the room—Seungcheol’s electricity supply being cut off last night with an awful excuse of fever and weak limbs to not to switch the air-set on, pillows piled up on the platform to hide the numb led button. 

Now he had something to put in his fridge, and then forget about it. 

Seungcheol glanced at his friend. Five hours until he could speak to him like this. Another five until he could speak to him at all. “Speaking of bitches, how was your time at Shinu?” 

“Cheol, I swear to fucking _God_!” 

He tried to avoid it by getting up to fetch for the beer cans, bed hurling with agony with all the movement. Yuta didn’t forget to throw an agitated glance on the man on the bed. Seungcheol had his eyes scanning the room for anything that would give his plan away. 

“Aw! Don’t be shy, Yuta. Tell me.” He pulled himself up on his elbows, laughing like an immature child as he watched Yuta wince, his back lowered to reach the low cabinet refrigerator, rose dusted on his summer cheeks. He did bring this upon himself—no one would expect a stern-looking Yuta who radiated want and temptation to get flustered by the mention of Shinu. 

His friend dodged the question, emptying out the frolics and talking in a tone suddenly too serious to adjust with. “We’re still stuck on finding Wen. Son of a bitch, can’t stay in the cities any longer.” 

His breath knocked itself out of his lungs. 

“He’s here?” He whispered, cautious. 

“Yeah,” Yuta nodded, “And turns out, he really has fucked almost everyone in Shinu.” 

_That explained a lot._

Seungcheol fell back down, his black t-shirt sticking on the newly formed sweat on his chest. “But that’s all we got—everyone who was with him got erased from the data by some kid called Chan. Even Kabuo couldn’t give us shit about it, and the staff only knew because of the kid’s misconduct.” 

Seungcheol raised his head off the pillow to follow the motion Yuta’s fingers made as he talked, trying to lock up his will to break free in his ribs. 

“You know, I really wish we could work together again, but you want to go on an adventure with this stupid cross—” Yuta stopped talking, and the silence that fell nibbled on both of their skins. Seungcheol sat up to make sure he was all right, back throbbing with force of drive and work, “— _Cheol_.” 

“What?” 

He stared at Yuta, who had his mouth slightly agape and two cans of beer in each of his hands, water dripping off the painted aluminium. 

<“You’re going to cross the border, aren’t you? Oh my fuck, you’re crossing the border! Are you fucking rash? How fuck—” 

Seungcheol crawled off the bed and jolted towards Yuta, placing his palm on his mouth to shut him up. 

Yuta was the one who said it anyway—in Yokohama, the walls have ears and the night sky has eyes. And right at the moment, he was the one blurting out complete nonsense. Hypocrisy tipped out of his lips. 

“I am _not_ crossing the border, Yuta,” he hissed. Yuta had licked his palm. 

“I don’t trust you. Like, at all!” 

Seungcheol winced at the wetness and the muffled sound, “I’m really not crossing the border. I have nothing left in Korea.” 

But it could be a good distraction for the police department. Seungcheol lost himself in it—it could be a _wonderful_ distraction for the YPD. They would spend a good fraction searching for him by the border and the seas. 

“When you say it that way,” Yuta shrugged, “I can’t help but believe you.” 

He softened his gaze, wiping his hand on Yuta’s white t-shirt sleeve, wetting it again with the drenched can. The coolness seeped in his flesh. “Glad.” 

“But seriously, you’re the only Korean I’m friends with, because you love Japan so much! I’d never find a man like you anywhere.” 

_Love Japan_ —bullshit. 

The place was nothing but a craving for money, power and superiority. Hundreds of boys like him, young and fresh, stumble upon the engine the country built itself on, so that one day they would rule it like no other emperor could. 

And then the roads would show its claws. 

Pot-bellied murderers on a hunt for young blood, monsters on their castle walls of pure pride and power. 

Seungcheol had already fallen into the trap he had set up on his own, and he kept on falling down the hole, nothing to pull him back up, and nothing for him to land on. 

Even when his lungs ached to kiss the ground, feel earth again, and cry for nature. 

“How many of my resources are you using?” He asked, well aware that YPD would have reached nowhere close to Wen if it wasn’t for him. 

“Pretty much everything” he wasn’t surprised. Yuta spoke calmly, “we just want to know why he isn’t making use of the Elixir.” 

“So, it’s still the same objective.” 

He nodded, reluctant. This wasn’t Yuta. 

His mind was still that of a lousy pick-pocketing teenager with daddy issues. He really wanted to tell all of it to him, though. Because no matter how imprudent he was, Yuta was still his friend—not for long. 

_Not for long._

Because both of them were at the starting point of the same race—Seungcheol with his solitude, and the entire YPD against him. 

He had met Yuta at the mouth of the training camp—brown hair at that time falling on the border of his eyebrows with rags to cover his body and tear stained face melting under scorching summer. Now when he looked at him, he had grown—as a man of fears, and the influence of the city, hair glowing like the neon advertisements on the towers, but heart like the mud on the alleyway. 

And this was the last look he would have on him. 

“Are you supposed to talk about the case to me, though?” 

Yuta laughed. “I’m not telling you _everything_ , you know. Just enough to lure you back in the Departments.” 

There was the man he talked about—the same tear stained sizzled up child. He was going to leave him behind—because there was no fucking way the Police Department could get to Wen before he did. 

\---- 

Yuta had been long gone, leaving Seungcheol staring at the grey gypsy dancing from the tip of his cigarette butt, the aflame green passport his friend had found from the refrigerator ( _“The last fucking thing I expected from you was to store your passport behind expired milk cartons, Cheol. You’ve really gone mad!”_ ), and the crushed pieces of the apartment’s fire alarm—its red light still blinking, but the voice it was supposed to hold silenced by the strongest blow he could give it with his hammer. 

This wasn’t the ending he dreamt of. 

He wanted a grave; to return to the soil he was built from. 

Not for long. 

_Not for long._

Seungcheol yearned to have his hands on the Elixir—another lunatic in the crowd of ugly Suns. 


End file.
